


Control (isn't everything)

by Vamillepudding



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 20:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: Look, it’s not like it’s a proper stutter, right? It’s not like Tommy is speech-impaired. He can talk just fine. It just takes him a bit of time, sometimes.





	Control (isn't everything)

Look, it’s not like it’s a proper stutter, right? It’s not like he’s _speech-impaired_. He can talk just fine. It just takes him a bit of time, sometimes. 

His mum used to do breathing exercises with him, back when he was little and she was still alive and hadn’t started drinking yet. It’s those times that Tommy remembers most fondly: The times he could come home and not be scared what might await him there, of whether his mum had broken something else while having alleged visions, of whether his dad would be angry at him or his siblings, of what would follow when his dad was angry. 

His mum would tell him, _take a deep breath and count to five, then try again_. Usually this worked. Had to, because there were consequences when it didn’t – even in those sheltered times. 

Tommy is fully aware that everyone has issues. His childhood was fairly standard for Small Heath, all things considered: Too many siblings and too little money, parents who drank too much, a father who got angry a lot. Nothing about this makes him _special_. It’s the same with the war – not just him who went, is it? It was everyone, including his own brothers. If everyone suffers, he has no right to complain – that, at least, is one of his dad’s lessons that stuck with him. 

Another one was this: Don’t let anyone know of your shortcomings. 

And Tommy didn’t. His new tactic to avoid slipping up is this: If you think you’re gonna stutter, just stay silent.  
It’s worked out for him so far. 

And he _has_ gotten better. Sometimes months pass before he remembers, before another incident happens. When it does, though, it always feels like a slap in the face. A reminder that no matter how hard he tries, how hard he works, it’ll never be enough.  
In some situation it’s worse than others. If he’s in control, he rarely has trouble. So Tommy makes sure to be in control as much as possible. 

When things get away from him…

Well. 

It was supposed to be just a normal business meeting with the head of the Pennington family, whom Tommy pays to patrol around the city centre and listen to any and all rumours that might be of interest. Arthur could have done this alone, but Tommy had a free afternoon, and he figured the two of them might serve as double intimidation. 

So him and Arthur meet Julien Pennington, a bloke in his thirties with a posh name that doesn’t suit his outward appearance at all. He’s recently taken over from his late father, which is the whole reason for this meeting. Tommy expects Pennington to ask for more money; he’s prepared to go up 10 % but not more. 

“Good old Julie,” Arthur says on the way. “Who’d have thought, eh? We used to beat him up after school.” 

“And now he works for us,” Tommy replies absently, straightening his tie. “Funny how that happens.” 

They enter the bar then, and fall into silence because Pennington is already there, shadowed by two guards. 

The meeting begins. 

It becomes clear very quickly that Pennington doesn’t just want a small raise. Normally Tommy would have put a stop to this immediately, but Pennington keeps smirking and making vague hints that he knows something, so Tommy decides to just let it play out for now. See what Pennington really wants, and what he really knows, and if either or both of these things are reason enough to put their razors to good use. 

Finally, after a lot of dancing around the subject and silently kicking Arthur under the table to stop him from doing something rushed,

Pennington smiles and says, “My father agreed on the price you suggested because he didn’t know any better. But I do. I know, for example, that your little sister is sometimes seen with a special lady friend. Can you imagine what they’re doing?” 

Arthur glances at Tommy, worry clearly etched across his face. Tommy can’t deal with that right now. He has to deal with the matter at hand. Rumours like this, true or not, have to be ripped out by the rout immediately. If they aren’t, they spread faster than wildfire, and before you know it, something that seemed small and insignificant at the time has gone ahead and ruined what you’ve taken years to build up, and - 

He takes a deep breath, aware that Pennington is watching him. He’s got to find just the right words, except - 

Except he can’t seen to find any right now. Fuck. _Fuck_. This hasn’t happened in ages. 

No, it’s fine. He’s 29 years old. Tommy starts, “D-d-do you,” and immediately snaps his mouth shut again. Shit. He can’t talk when he’s like this, but he’s got to, he can’t just sit here in silence, Arthur can’t handle a delicate situation like this, it’s Tommy who’s got to step up. 

Pennington, to Tommy’s utter mortification, laughs. “Thought that would make you nervous.” 

“Mr. P-P-Penningt-t-“ Tommy knows his cheeks are burning. This has never happened in a business meeting before. Not ever. Suddenly it doesn’t matter what Ada does or doesn’t do; if word gets out about _this_, he’s fucked. 

For the first time in a very long time, he looks at his big brother for help. 

Who takes out his gun before Pennington can so much as laugh again. 

Three shots ring, and then it’s over. Tommy blinks a couple times, unable to do anything else just now. Arthur doesn’t say anything either, just stands there, pistol still in one hand, as though he half-expects some new threat to present itself any second. 

Eventually, Tommy stands up, brushes himself off, and says, “Well, I suppose we have to find ourselves someone else to play I Spy for us.” 

Arthur laughs and wraps an arm around Tommy as they walk out, because that’s the kind of person he is: Quick to act, quick to forget and forgive. 

They’ll still have to deal with the Ada situation. But first they need to get out of here, and then maybe Tommy can talk to his sister without sounding like a fucking embarrassment.

***

Tommy knocks on Ada’s door after everyone has either gone to bed (Finn) or out (Arthur, Polly, John). He finds her sitting cross-legged on her bed, smoking. When Tommy just raises an eyebrow, she says defensively, “Oh, come on. It’s not like you don’t do it too.” 

He sits down next to her and steals the fag from between her fingers, only to take a drag of it himself before putting it out. Ada doesn’t waste time scowling, she just asks, “What do you want?” 

“I heard a rumour today,” Tommy says. “People are talking about you.” 

“Aren’t they always?” 

“Ada, you have to be careful. Alright? People like us, we can’t just do what we want, how we want it. In Small Heath, no one will dare say anything, but word gets out fast. Our name can’t protect you everywhere.” 

“You’re unbelievable,” Ada says. Her voice is quite calm, like she _can_ believe it but doesn’t want to. “This advice from you of all people?” 

“We have an image to maintain,” Tommy insists. She has to understand. He has to make her understand. 

“Fuck images! What about you, Tom? You are such a hypocrite.” 

“I d-don’t – I know what I am, alright? I know. B-b-“ For the second time that day, he has to interrupt himself. What’s _wrong_ with him? 

Ada’s hands are on him suddenly, steadying him. “Tom. You’re fine. Don’t panic.” 

“I’m n-n-n-“ 

Images of his father flash through his mind: Arthur Sr. getting frustrated with his son’s pathetic attempts to speak, motivating him with the belt instead. Tommy’s breathing picks up. 

Ada slaps him, presumably out of other options. And just like that, he’s back in the present, the sharp pain ringing through his cheek serving as a decades-long reflex to make him pay attention. 

She can’t have done that on purpose. She can’t have known. 

But still…

Tommy says, “If you’re seen again, I’ll find the girl.” 

He leaves. Ada calls after him, “Fuck you!” 

That night, he can’t sleep. He keeps tossing and turning on his narrow bed, and when the sensation becomes too much, he goes to stand in front of his mirror to do something he hasn’t done in years: He practices speaking.

***

Meeting Alfie is a revelation on many levels. Firstly, because Tommy thinks he has never met anyone quite like this man from Camden Town in his entire life. Secondly, because he suddenly understands why Ada kept sneaking off to her mystery meetings in the past months despite knowing better. And thirdly, because the way Alfie speaks makes Tommy both mad and insanely jealous. 

Alfie Solomons is smarter than he seems, some informants told him. Alfie Solomons is one crazy fucker, other informants said. But all informants agreed on this one thing: Alfie Solomons has a way with words. 

They were right, Tommy now knows. Alfie does have a way with words. Alfie talks like he’s spinning a particularly complicated story. He talks in a circle, but one with many twists and turns. He is, perhaps, the only person in the world who talks entirely like he’s thinking without really revealing anything at all. 

And, of course, he never once falters or stumbles over his own words. Tommy wants to be like that so badly that it hurts, and if he can’t have that, he at least wants to have some part of it. He thinks that it would be alright if he couldn’t talk like Alfie does, if he could just _listen_ to Alfie, for eternity. 

They work out a deal, and after that, it’s only logical that they keep meeting. Tommy meets up with a lot of his business partners, some more frequently than others. 

Alfie definitely falls into the More Frequently category. 

There’s just a lot to do, alright? A lot to speak about. And if there isn’t, Tommy always manages to find other business in London. While he’s _already there_, he might as well drop by the bakery, right? That’s only a logical conclusion. 

Alfie has never once commented on this strange behaviour. So they keep having business meetings. And on one afternoon, Tommy arrives in Camden Town only to find Alfie just about to step outside, a huge dog by his side. 

“Cyril wanted to take a walk,” Alfie explains like that’s a normal thing to say to your business partner. “You want to join, mate?” 

Since the alternative is waiting here until Alfie returns, Tommy says, “Sure.” 

Alfie looks delighted. “Knew you’d be up for it, didn’t I? Go on, then. You can pet him. He won’t mind.” 

Tommy has never much cared about dogs, but he obediently reaches out to scratch Cyril between his ears. Cyril’s tail wags in response. 

It becomes a habit after that: Walking by the Fleet, feeding Cyril dog biscuits and watching as he traumatises some pigeons for life, sometimes talking about how business is going but more often than not talking about other things, too. 

They have struck a tentative friendship, as much as two men who do bad things for a living can ever be friends, and everything is perhaps better than it’s ever been before – until, of course, it all goes to shit. 

The thing that no one, not his parents, not Polly, not his siblings, understand, is that having a stutter really _isn’t_ something Tommy thinks about all the time. It’s not like he goes through life fearing the next time he has to speak out loud. He’d be killed within days if that were the case. 99 % of the time, he does just fine, and doesn’t even think about what would have happened otherwise. 

The other 1 % are humiliating at best, catastrophic at worst. 

This is the 1 %: 

On any other day, Tommy wouldn’t have minded that Alfie has, apparently, decided to make a spontaneous trip to Birmingham. 

Except Alfie comes to Small Heath while Tommy is out. He’s just finished indulging in good old-fashioned blackmail and gone to the Garrison for a celebratory drink and also to find someone to yell-at-and-or-shoot for giving Finn a pint the other day, when the boy in question comes running in. 

Tommy downs his whiskey and says, “Finn, I told you – you can come in, you can have juice, you can’t have beer.” 

From behind the bar, Harry says, “I don’t think we have juice, actually.” 

“You can have milk,” Tommy corrects himself, not missing a beat. Harry groans, but doesn’t protest. 

“I don’t even want beer,” Finn says in that offended way most 14-year-old boys adopt when they get called out on something. Of course, when Tommy was 14, him and Arthur would regularly break into the storage area of every pub with easy-to-pick locks, and get drunk off their arses. But Tommy firmly believes into letting Finn figuring these things out for himself. If his little brother wants booze, he can damn well steal it himself. 

“What _do_ you want, then?” Tommy asks. The question makes Finn snap back to attention. 

“You need to come home, Tom. A strange fella came knocking.” 

Instinct makes Tommy take out his gun and walk out of the bar immediately. It takes a few seconds for Finn to catch up to him; when he does, Tommy asks, “What did he look like then, eh? This strange fella?” 

“He had a big beard and a cane. And he talked funny.” 

Tommy hastens his steps. “Did he say what he wants?” 

“To talk to you.” 

Right. That’s fine. Maybe- 

“Arthur punched him,” Finn adds. It’s obvious he’s held out on this particular bit of news as long as possible. 

“Arthur did what.” 

Tommy is walking so fast now that Finn almost has to run to keep up. Doesn’t matter; maybe it’s better if Finn gets left behind and doesn’t see whatever is about to happen. 

“I heard them arguing, and then something shattered, and when I came in Arthur had just lost it.” 

“You didn’t think to interfere?” 

“No,” Finn says, leaving Tommy to sigh. They will have to address this later. For now, it’s enough to say, “Next time you see a family member fighting with a stranger, you pull out your fucking gun, and if you have a clear shot, you shoot.” 

“Fine.” Finn sounds miserable. But he has to learn. No matter whatever else happens, you stand by your family. 

Even if it’s against Alfie. 

They’re there, finally. Tommy tells his brother, “You stay here.” 

“But you just said-“

“Finn.” 

“_Fine_,” Finn says for the second time in the conversation. He looks pissed, but not like he’s about to disobey. Tommy reckons it’ll be about 15 minutes before Finn loses patience. 

15 minutes will be more than enough to deal whatever awaits him inside. 

He resists the urge to knock before going inside. It’s his house, his home, but there’s this feeling in his gut, similar to the one he used to have as a boy, coming home from school. A vague, undefinable feeling of dread. 

He walks in. Closes the door. Listens to any noises. Nothing, except - 

Tommy opens the door to the kitchen, and finds Arthur, looking absolutely furious and being held at gunpoint by one Alfie Solomons. 

“I can expl-“ Alfie doesn’t finish the sentence, seeing as Tommy has just unflicked the safety of his own pistol. They stare at each other for a couple seconds. 

“I have to say, this afternoon has turned out considerably more interesting than I ever could have imagined,” Alfie says, eyes not leaving the barrel facing him. “Who knew you had it in you?” 

“Tommy-“ Arthur starts, but is silenced by Alfie holding his own gun closer to Arthur’s head. 

And that just about settles it, doesn’t it? 

Tommy says, “You have ten seconds to get out of here. Then I shoot.” 

Alfie looks from him to Arthur, then back at him. Eventually, he shrugs. “Suit yourself, mate.” 

It might have ended then. Maybe Alfie would have left, and they’d never have spoken to one another outside of business-related matters ever again. 

Except then, Arthur says, “I knew he had to be lying, Tom,” and Tommy stops dead in his tracks. 

He should wait until Alfie has left. He should really, really wait until Alfie has left. 

But Alfie isn’t gone yet, and Tommy can’t help it as he asks, “Lying about what?” 

“Bastard implied some shite about you being one of them cocksuckers,” Arthur says, not noticing how Tommy freezes up at that. 

Alfie, who presumably has never in his life met a tense situation he didn’t feel challenged to make worse, puts a solemn hand over his heart and says, “Being a complete and utter gentleman in every aspect of life, I would like it known that I have said no such thing. Hinted at, maybe, but I can assure you that the sentiment was very different from what your brother just described.” 

Possibly Arthur responds something to that, but if so, Tommy doesn’t hear it – he’s too busy concentrating on his breathing, concentrating on the ringing in his ears, concentrating on not passing out right there. 

Something touches him – the tip of Alfie’s cane. 

“You always look handsome as day, but – and don’t take this personal, but as of right now, you look like what I would imagine some corpse what has just walked out of its grave might look like. You alright there, Thomas?” 

Tommy has never felt less alright in his life, but it’s not like Alfie needs to know that. He says dismissively, “I’m fine”. Or at least, that’s what he means to say. What comes out is: “I’m f-f-f-f-“ 

Fuck. _Not now_. It’s been _months_ since the last time_, he’s been alright, why does this have to come back now  
_

“Tommy?” This comes from Arthur, who is either worried about Tommy or worried that Alfie will use this against them come time. 

No, that’s unfair. Just because Tommy is _so fucking useless, can’t even get one sentence out, what the fuck_, doesn’t mean it’s Arthur’s fault. Arthur isn’t like that, Tommy knows he isn’t. He just – he can’t believe this is happening.

And Alfie still hasn’t said a word. 

“Tom,” Arthur prompts again. Alright. Fuck. Pull yourself together. 

“It’s alright, don’t w-w-w-“ 

Tommy, who has never felt this inadequate in his entire life, walks out of the room, out of the house, walks past Finn and out of Small Heath, and just keeps walking. 

He walks, and walks, and has walked for the better part of an hour when he realises what under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have missed: Someone is following him. He turns around. 

Alfie waves at him. Tommy scowls and resumes the walk. 

They continue on like this for another hour, but eventually, Alfie calls out, “I want you to know that while I absolutely plan to follow on your heels for as long as you want, in a much more real sense I’m gonna have to stop soon. Fucking shitty back and all that. So I would like to propose, for the sake of my back if nothing else, that we find the nearest bench and take a break. After that, your own personal crisis may resume its path.” 

He thinks about arguing, but in the end decides it’s just not worth the effort. So they find a bench, and sit down, and then Tommy is at a loss of what to say. 

He settles on the first thing that comes to mind: 

“I assumed you’d go back to London.” 

“Assumed wrong then, didn’t you?” Alfie pauses and then adds, almost to himself, “So how does this whole stutter think work then? You can talk until, what, you feel threatened?” Just like that, Tommy is tense again, but Alfie keeps talking like he doesn’t notice. “Nah, can’t be that. Man like you, I’d reckon you get threatened all the time. When you get your feelings hurt, then?” Alfie studies him for a bit. Tommy can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. “Not that either, is it? So…I’m just gonna put it right out there, mate, and say that it’s probably to do with control. Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? I thought so.” 

Tommy has grown up around people who pretended to read cards, tea leaves and minds alike, so he should be used to this particular brand of charlatan-psychoanalysis. But the fact is that Alfie has just hit the nail right on the head, so clearly the only way forward is to not acknowledge it. 

Alfie laughs to himself. “The way I see it, you worry about this all the fucking time. And I would bet all my money that you also worry about men – liking them, being seen with them, being known for what you are. But that’s silly, eh? Fucking silly way of living your life.” 

“Arthur-“ 

“Your brother has, without a doubt, one of the most punchable faces I have ever seen in all my years on this earth. And you can sit here, and think about the million ways he could judge you, the million ways he is judging you right this very minute, _or_, and I say this very tentatively, or you could go and talk to him.” 

At some point, it’s gotten dark. It will be almost midnight by the time Tommy comes home. If he starts walking right now. 

He stands. And looks back at Alfie, one more time. “Will you go back to London?” 

Despite the fact that just a few minutes ago, he told Alfie that’s what he expected, he doesn’t want Alfie to actually say yes. 

Alfie says, “Talk to your brother. And when you’re done, come find my hotel.” 

“Which hotel?” 

“I’ll leave that for you to find out.” 

Tommy goes. 

He talks to Arthur. 

In the early hours of morning, he finally arrives at the hotel, half-hoping it’s not too late, half-hoping that it is. 

He knocks on the door to Alfie’s suite, not sure whether he wants it to open. But it’s too late now. He's already knocked, has made his move. The next move is Alfie’s. 

Tommy takes a deep breath and counts to five. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea ages ago, but only now got the proper inspiration to write it. I'd love to hear what you thought !


End file.
